"... and me brother, Thrandon, 'e's the Crown Prince, ain't 'e? Got all a Dwarf could want, I warrant yer. Power, wealth, Dwarfettes - 'e's father's favourite son, and the first born, obviously," Thranok rattled coarsley, pausing briefly to take another clumsy bite from the meat pie he held with both hands. "So where that be leavin' me, eh? Why, it be leavin' me free to do what I want. I got me four brothers that gotta die first before I need ta worry 'bout any bloomin' crown, aye?"

The guard, a human of middle years, nodded silently for the hundredth time in the last two hours of travel. He'd hopped to escape Thranok's constant prattling when the caravan stopped, but found that the Dwarf had taken an apparent liking to him. 

"I er, I best go and check on the horses," came the first excuse to reach the guard's mind. "It's been a pleasure, Thranok."

Thranok's brow furrowed, and he seemed genuinely upset that his talking companion was bidding him farewell - albeit temporarily - but managed a nod and a sigh. "Righty'o then, lad, be seein' yer." 

Perched upon the stump of a fallen tree, the Dwarven Prince looked out across the resting caravan, taking in the sight of so many people, all of whom had their own stories, and most of whom came from varying backgrounds. This was proper adventuring, he reasoned, out in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers, all bound by mutual interest. 

Something stirred from the tree line nearby, and Thranok ignored it, choosing instead to sink his teeth into the meat pie. But then, there was music, an eerie music that at first calmed the Prince, but soon brought terror to him as his eyes started to close. This wasn't the first time he'd come up against such trickery. Jumping from the stump in a rattle of mail, he threw his pie to the wind, and grabbed his bronze axe; the head shining brilliantly in the midday sun. 

"Don't be listenin' to that nonsense, lads!" He called out across the caravan. "It's a bloomin' song from the accursed; it'll send yer to sleep so that the bastard playin' it can slit our throats 'n take our stuff!" 

The Prince looked left, then right, scanning the trees. A rush of exhaustion pulsed through him, making the axe weigh six times more than it usually did. A few of the guards, and half a dozen of the merchant staff fell to the floor despite their best efforts. If Thranok didn't act fast, he was going to join them, and it would be all over. 

His eyes narrowed on something, a shape emerging from the tree line. Hefting his axe, he ran forwards, his stubby legs pounding the grass; his lungs ballooning with exertion as they fought to supply his sleep-addled brain with enough oxygen to carry him forwards. Forty yards, thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards - and then he was almost face to face with it. 

"A Satyr? Shoulda bloomin' known," Thranok muttered at the creature through barred teeth, "I think it be yer who'll be doin' the sleepin', aye?" 

The wearied Prince raised his axe, and lunged at the Satyr with an overhead swing.